The Hunt
by Queen Shnoogleberry
Summary: Holmes is bored and driving Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson MAD! So they decide to take their revenge... Kainda silly, but still funny... Not slash I thought I'd try that for once... rated M because I don't know what's to come...
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked over the bow of his violin. He was bored. Very bored. Watson was off at dinner with yet ANOTRHER woman, Mrs. Hudson was shopping with the maid. In short, there was no one to scandalize or annoy. With a sigh he placed the instrument on the table and reached for the cocaine. Watson would be angry. He smiled at the thought of the good doctor lecturing his and even going as far as to lock the drug in his desk, as he had done last time, before Sherlock simply bought more.

Deciding that this was a perfect time to annoy his friend, as well as test his acting abilities, he did not suck any of the drug into the syringe, but, instead simply stuck it into his arm in order to leave a mark. Leaning back, he awaited the other's return.

He picked up an old volume and read the first chapter before his alert senses notified his to the sound of the door opening and footsteps up the stairs. He fixed a vacant stare on his face, as Watson entered.

"Good God, Holmes!!! Don't tell me you're up to your detestable habits again!!!"

"Pass me my needle?"

"Holmes?"

"Hmmm?"

"No."

"Then I'll get it myself." He began to rise.

"Then you'll be finding another doctor as well as another room mate."

He sprung out of his chair. "Brilliant!!! Brilliant, my dear Watson!!! A truly unexpected response!!!"

"What exactly do you mean?" The poor doctor was stunned.

"Observe the full vial" He made an elaborate gesture to the item in question.

"You mean you-"

The detective placed his hand on the other's shoulder. "I assure you, my dear friend, you have completely erased the habit from me."

"Unfortunately, I have yet to erase your cruel sense of humor…"

"That's all me, not an artificial stimulant." He smirked. Watson grumbled something about snapping and glanced at his revolver, but decided it was too much effort for so lat in the evening.

"Well, goodnight then…"

"Goodnight, my dear doctor." There was something about his grin that reminded Watson of a cat playing with a mouse before it killed and ate it. He decided that it was normal for Holmes he went upstairs, deciding to REALLY think about marriage to this woman… and leaving.

Holmes sat back in his chair by the fire. He shared something with Napoleon, a sleep cycle. He slept, heavily, perhaps one night in four or five. Rising and deciding that he needed to pace, he reached for his pipe. He knew that Watson was seriously looking into marriage, he decided that he must have a little fun before his closest friend left him.

He replaced his unlit pipe on the rack and used every bit of stealth he possessed, to climb the stairs to Watson's room. He slowly opened the door. The doctor was fast asleep, as he had left nearly an hour ago. Holmes slipped into the room.

He observed the room in the dim light and his eyes focused on the nightstand. It was perfect. He first moved it to the other side of the bed. Then the bureau caught his attention. This was rotated 180 degrees. He looked up and saw the simple gas lights over the fireplace. Perfect.

He stalked down to the kitchen and 'borrowed' several pots and pans. These were all hung on said lights. Deciding that it was not enough, he retrieved his cosmetics kit. Using this, he applied some fake blood to his hands and left bloody handprints all over the room, and taking off his slipper, one bloody shoe print near the ceiling, for good measure.

He left the room and went down to his. H slept for a few peaceful hours, until the whole house shook with Watson's outraged screaming.

"HOOOOOOOOOLMES!!!"

He tried to pretend to be innocent, but the sight of the outraged doctor, holding a frying pan sent him into peals of silent laughter.

"Holmes, I swear!!! I WILL hurt you… maybe not now, but some day, when you think you're safe. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I WILL get YOU…"

This only induced further laughter. This continued until a rather angry Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and rapped at the sitting room door. "Have either of you seen where half my pots and pans have gone?"

Watson's glare at Holmes said everything she needed to know. "What the HELL did you do NOW!?!"

Shocked at her tone, Homes stayed silent.

"He hung them around my room."

"OH! Mr. Holmes!!! Really! When my nephew was FIVE he didn't do such things!"

"Because he couldn't reach."

"Doctor Watson, I over heard you say something about hurting him. Well count me in…"

He almost felt ashamed. It was the sweet Mrs. Hudson that did it. He silently retrieved the pots and pans and righted the room. Huffing with irritation he walked to the Diogenes Club and spent the night at his brother's house.

When told the story, Mycroft seriously considered disowning him, but he had to chuckle a little too, at the footprint on the wall.

It was when Mrs. Hudson was cleaning that the method of revenge came to them. She was trying to dust while not disturb any of Holmes's things. She asked Watson to move it for her. They're eyes met and the idea sparked between them.

Later that day, Holmes returned home and found, to his annoyance, that Mrs. Hudson had been cleaning. Knowing that Watson wasn't likely to b willing to converse, he opened his violin case. It was gone. In its place was a sealed envelope. He opened it.

Dear Mr. Holmes,

If you ever want to see your violin again you will be in front of Charring Cross Station at three O'clock PM precisely, to receive further instruction.

The whole message had been cut out of a news paper. He sighed and didn't even bother to check the grate, because he knew the paper crumples in there would be full of holes. With a begrudging scowl, he checked his watch. There was just enough time to get there.

He stood in front of the station, positively seething. Whoever was to meet him, and he sincerely didn't believe Watson would be stupid enough to come in person, was late, by half an hour.

Forty-Five minutes late, his watch said. He looked across the street and down a little. There was a drug store… maybe if he just stopped in there for a little while…

"Ha!!! The pharmacist exclaimed when he asked for a seven percent solution. "Dr. Watson is an old friend of mine. He informed me you'd be coming! He also told me to tell you that under NO circumstances are you to indulge, or you'll never see it again and that you should see Stamford."

"But I've lost contact with him!"

"Watson says he knows and to have fun tracing him."

Holmes's eye twitched. "Good day then." He placed his hat on his head and let the store. "Damn him… damn him…" He muttered under his breath, all the way to Stamford's previous address. A little inquiry amongst the neighbor's maids gave him the new location of his friend. However, by the time he had acquired the knowledge, it was too late to call, especially on the grounds that they had lost contact. So, with fury in his veins, he hailed a cab and drove home fuming at his friend.

Dr. Watson was strangely absent that night. The detective sat down in his chair by the fire and smoked several pipes, trying to figure where this puzzle was going to end. Home? No, to obvious. Some random London location? No, too uncertain. Abroad? No! Too expensive! He grew increasingly frustrated as new ideas popped into his head, each more ridiculous than the last. Eventually he decided the doctor knew too much of his methods to be trusted to err, so he decided to see this problem out, both for something to do and to please his friend, however annoying he may be.

After a slight breakfast the next morning, he set out. Stamford was waiting for him.

"Ah, so you DID find your way here? Well then, allow me to give you your next clue…


	2. Chapter 2

"Be at Natural History Museum by three O'clock Friday, come alone and unarmed. Stand beside the pharos's tomb exhibit, to the left, partially in the shadows. Wear a green silk Cravat."

Holmes scowled. Watson knew full well that he did not own a green cravat, let alone a silk one. Green looked atrocious on him and it was only out of necessity that he searched his friend's drawers for one. He found one in a dark pine green. He took it without the slightest bit of guilt. After all, the doctor had taken his Violin! His beloved Stradivarius! "If this game goes on much longer, we may be playing 'find the cravat' with the roles switched!"

Watson sat with some of his helpers in his scheme. One looked over his pipe at him. "You do realize, he's likely to kill you when this is over, right?"

"I'm praying that the irony of the situation hits him before any fatal blows befall me." He replied and took a sip of Brandy.

Holmes stood by the exhibit. He felt ridicules standing there. It had to be the Ancient Egyptian exhibit, too. A whole society of foolish spells and bizarre, and not to mention fake creatures! There was even a man with a dogs head for heaven's sake! People were starting to stare. It was obvious he was not interested in acquiring information regarding history; yet, there he stood, still as the pharaoh in his tomb.

Just as he was ready to give up, wait for Watson to come home and extracting information whatever way necessary, a small, old lady draped in a shall approached him.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"That is me."

"I have a message for you."

"I imagine you do. But who, exactly are you?"

"I am not allowed to say, sir, only that you must return home now and await a message there. It will arrive at seven O'clock tonight." She walked away before he could ask anything further. In reality, he did not know her. She was the mother of one of Holmes's poorer clients. They were never able to repay him, and when Dr. Watson approached them, claiming that it was to keep him occupied, they jumped at the chance.

Holmes sat in his chair before the fire. He was tempted to interrogate Mrs. Hudson, but the woman was stubborn, and he knew that very well, having found out the hard way once. It was thirty minutes after five O'clock. He still had an hour and a half to go… He thought of taking a dose of cocaine, just to spite the doctor, but that would just look childish in the long run. Attacking the next messenger, too, was out of the question. Besides, if Watson knew what he was doing, he would not tell anyone his entire plan. He reflected for what seemed like an eternity, when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson climbed the stairs and wordlessly deposited an envelope into his lap.

Holmes took the envelope and examined it with great detail. He could tell instantly that it was Watson who sent it. The doctor knew that hiding his writing would be useless. The envelope was new, so there were minimal traces of where it was sent from. The ink had been allowed to dry, rather than being blotted. The nib was a fine one, the one Watson typically used when traveling…

"Damn…" Sherlock muttered, knowing that this meant that he would very likely be required to take a train journey during this Hunt from Hell.

Not as he predicted, the message said, "There once was a ferret, which lived in a large forest of many other creatures. He tried to swim many times but was frequently out of his depth. Often there was a life raft thrown to him by a kind and helpful bird. The bird was prone to flying away at the oddest times."

He sat pondering this all night. What did he know or care of animals. In an attempt to try and get inside his friend's head, he pulled some old copies of 'Strand Magazine' off the shelf. Though, despite his best efforts, he read all the wrong ones, the ones in which Watson did not compare Lestrade to a ferret. It was not until Mrs. Hudson brought the breakfast tray in the morning that another clue at deciphering this puzzle presented itself.

She laid the tray before him, with the coffee pot nearest him. She figured well that it would be the only thing he would even touch. AS Holmes caught his reflection in the polished pot, he gave a cry and stood up, knocking over his chair. "Mrs. Hudson, you stand before the biggest fool in all London!!!"

"Yes, I know." She said and left.

Holmes gazed at his reflection and growled, mentally planning an even more excruciatingly painful death when he got his hands on the man who called himself a friend…

"Lestrade too…" He growled, changed and headed out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade welcomed him into his home the way one would a money-bag. He was giddy with laughter at the thought of the doctor finally extracting his revenge, and was more than happy, proud, in fact, to help. He had even bought a new bottle of brandy for this interview, knowing Holmes would need it.

He poured the detective his first glass and asked, "So, What brings you here?"

"You ought to know, considering you're involved."

"Right, but I want to hear it from your lips."

"Do you want me to ever help you in your investigations again?"

"Do you ever want to see your precious violin again?"

"Damn it, Lestrade! Tell me where he is!" He rose and nearly tipped over the table.

"Hmmm… well… I could, but where's the fun in that?"

"So help me…" He hissed though clenched teeth as his fists balled.

"Oh, my… letting your emotions run rampant, are we? Don't you preach about such things?"

"I'm going to hurt you…"

"Then my lips are sealed."

"I'll beat it out of you…"

"Oh, my… rather passionate, aren't we?" he continued to chuckle. "Just say 'please' and I'll tell you."

"No…" Lestrade simply poured himself another glass of brandy. "…please…"

"That's better!" He looked up, beaming. "now… what WAS it… hmmm… Ah, yes! Go to that oak tree in Hyde park that we caught the axe murder under, tomorrow, and wait for the 'signal'…"

"That's it?"

"Yup… more brandy?"


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes stood, disguised as a woman, may as well make it fun for his opponent to try to find him, under the appointed tree. It had taken hours of walking about the stupid park yesterday to find this particular tree. When he saw Watson himself approach him, he prepared for the pounce.

"Ah, my dear Holmes… how are you?"

'Damn!' he thought. "If I weren't in a corset, I'd pummel you."

"I bet you would… but may I say that you make a rather pretty girl…? Would you care to o for a walk?" He offered his friend his arm.

Eye twitching, Holmes pushed him away in a very unladylike manner. "Just tell me the bloody clue."

"Alright, meet me I that town in Sussex, where we captured the man that was scamming insurance companies via a plot involving clocks and ropes."

Holmes knew the exact place. A sudden thought occurred to him, involving his current disguise. A twisted smile crossed his face and he shouted, "HELP!!! NO!!! I WON"T GO WITH YOU!!! HEEEEELP!!! HELP ME!!!" About ten men were within hearing range and came running over.

"Is something the matter, miss?" One asked.

Sniffling, Holmes said, "He tried to…" he faked a hiccup, "He tried to make me come home with him!"

"How dare you!!!" One cried as he began to aim a punch.

"NO!!!" Holmes cried. "Just take him to Scotland yard, and report him to Inspector Lestrade, he's knows us… and he's so smart, he'll know what to do…" He said in an airy voice. Turning to the handsomest one, he said with tears in his eyelashes, "I was so frightened, would you walk me home, I feel I may faint…"

Watson was lead away, indignant, yet defeated. At Scotland Yard, Inspector Lestrade didn't laugh, but brought out the brandy, while mentally preparing himself for an easy murder case to solve. Whichever one was left standing, was the killer…


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat on the train, paper in hand. He wondered how much longer Watson would try to drive him mad with this scavenger hunt. He looked over the top of his paper as a family passed by his compartment. One of the little girls pointed and said something Sherlock could not hear through the glass. Her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Two hours left on this train. Then he would pummel Watson. He would make him bleed…

The station at the appointed town was deserted. There was, however, a message tacked to the door.

'To Mr. Sherlock Holmes'

Assuming that there was only one man named 'Sherlock Holmes' arriving that day at that station, he took the message and read it.

'Go to the 'Three Hounds Inn' and tell them your name is 'Basil Rattagain'. You have a prepaid reservation.'

He crumpled the note and threw it into the nearest waste bin. He stalked to the appointed inn, leaving his trunk at the station.

They had been expecting him there. His friend, the man sharing the room with him, a Dr. Watson, was already there.

"You wouldn't happen to have any spare medieval torture devices lying around, would you?" Sherlock muttered as he was shown his room.

The innkeeper's response was negative.

"Thought so. Well it was worth a try."

The door was opened to reveal his _friend _sitting at the table reading the newspaper. He hardly looked up as his friend entered, but pointed to the corner where two sets of fishing gear sat. "Your last task, Sherlock, is to agree to spend a restful weekend of fishing with me. Then you will get your beloved 'Sofia' back."

"How did you know I named it!?!" He gasped. Watson smiled.


End file.
